


Death Threats as Love Letters

by idiotbrothers



Category: Machine Gun Kelly (Musician)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Closure, Confrontations, Enemies to Lovers, Introspection, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, SURPRISE I'm very into this pairing who would've guessed, Slow Burn, Social Media, Substance Abuse, Texting, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: Against all odds, they’re drawn together again.
Relationships: Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly/Eminem
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	Death Threats as Love Letters

**Author's Note:**

> RPF Disclaimer: This is purely fictional and shouldn’t be taken too seriously! It doesn’t reflect on the real people whose public personas I’m borrowing for funsies.
> 
> Title inspired by the line from Eminem’s “Killshot”. You know the one. 
> 
> ALSO - because I couldn’t resist - here’s an abridged list of songs that relate to the mood, themes, and/or character backstories of this fic:  
> 
>
>> •“Welcome 2 Hell” - Bad Meets Evil  
> •“Breaking News 2” - Machine Gun Kelly  
> •“I’m a Fake” - The Used  
> •“Faget” - Korn  
> •“Hollywood Whore” - Machine Gun Kelly  
> •“Not Alike” - Eminem ft. Royce Da 5’9”  
> •“Looking Like Meat” - clipping., Ho99o9  
> •“Floyd The Barber” - Nirvana  
> •"You Were The Shit (In High School)" - Cage  
> •“No Regrets” - Eminem ft. Don Toliver  
> •“Death In My Pocket” - Machine Gun Kelly  
> •“You’re Too Much” - Failure  
> 
> 
>   
> Enjoy! 

It’s been two full years since their highly publicized feud, but once again, Marshall finds himself unable to get motherfucking Machine Gun Kelly out of his head.  
  
It starts with him seeing some offhand comment online about how the kid had “officially retired” _Rap Devil_ from his shows. That leads to Marshall giving in to his curiosity by looking up recordings of his most recent live performances on YouTube, and subsequently falling down a rabbit hole. As much as he hates to admit it - even just to himself - the kid is one hell of a performer. He commands the mic with a confidence and an admirably unflagging energy that keep Marshall’s eyes riveted to his screen for video after video. He watches MGK crowd-surf, show off with ostentatious mic tricks, climb and leap and thrash while the members of his band play their asses off in the background. He watches him guzzle beer between songs, head tipped back and rivulets running down his chin, crushing the can with ease when he’s done. He watches his cheeks hollow out as he takes a hard drag on his ever-present blunt.

He watches the way the women in the audience react to him when he gets close, hands desperately grasping at his bare, sweat-slicked, gaudily tattooed torso as he leans in to indulge them, making eye contact with several of them in turn over the mic. _Slut_ , Marshall thinks viciously, his erection starting to become difficult to ignore. He absolutely resents the fact that this braggadocious, loud-mouthed brat can have such an effect on him. It isn’t a new problem, either. The first time it emerged from his subconscious was around the time he was writing _Killshot_ and thinking up insults about MGK’s physical appearance to pay him back for the superficial garbage littered throughout _Rap Devil_. He’d been stewing on it for too long, glaring at a growing list of scratched-out phrases on his notebook page, before he had decided he needed a visual to get the words flowing. He’d run a Google image search on his phone and slowly scrolled through the results, grimacing at the fact that the top ones mostly seemed to be from articles about who he was potentially dating. Typical.  
  
Lingering on a couple close-up shots of the kid’s face, Marshall had been momentarily stumped. What insecurities could he possibly exploit here? Razor-sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, _cocksucking mouth_ … right. That last one could carry the entire track if he wanted it to. He couldn’t think of one other person who embodied the phrase more. Yeah, Machine Gun Kelly’s mouth was something he could work with. He’d hastily scribbled down a couple of lines, then went back to his phone for more material, his brain brimming over with images of his subject on his knees, staring defiantly up at him through fair eyelashes, spit and jizz ruining his pretty-boy face. Marshall remembered needing to take a moment to calm himself down, his heartbeat growing erratic.  
  
He’d kept scrolling through pictures until he’d discovered the man bun, and the rest was history. Except… what none of the diehard Stans knew - the ones who ferociously insisted that he’d destroyed MGK’s career beyond recovery - was that as tensions between their respective fan bases were mounting in the wake of _Killshot_ ’s release, Marshall was nursing a bit of an obsession with his purported rival. Initially, he told himself he was just seeing whether the kid would keep using his name for clout, milking their feud to cling onto whatever scrap of relevance it afforded him in the eyes of anyone who mattered. He started checking MGK’s twitter every day, sometimes multiple times a day, for new activity. He set up a weekly Google alert for him. He created a burner instagram account to follow him from, so he could view his stories and tune in when he went live. He watched too many of his interviews to count, keenly noting his unpredictable switches in temperament - subdued, smiley, and accommodating in one and irritable, defensive, and visibly contemptuous in the next. Voice soft, smoke-roughened, tipping up into airy laughter, careening down into deep reserves of anger.  
  
For some perplexing, incredibly regrettable reason, Marshall was _fascinated_. Maybe it was because the kid sort of reminded him of himself when he was a hot-tempered hellion of a youth. Maybe it really was just that beautiful goddamned face of his sending Marshall’s good sense running for the hills. His almost _dainty_ appearance - slender all over, primped-up hair, rosebud mouth, clad in delicate silver jewelry and fussy designer clothes that accentuated his height - was sometimes deliciously at odds with his insolent personality. There was just _something_ about him, and whatever it was, it kept Marshall’s eye on him long after their beef had grown cold. For a while, he found himself impatiently wanting to rekindle it, wanting to know that he was on Machine Gun Kelly’s mind in some capacity. But MGK - or _Kells_ , as Marshall had come to think of him more often than not - didn’t give him an inch. It seemed like he’d taken his fifteen minutes of real fame and peaced out.  
  
And that was why Marshall ended up deciding to bait him on _Music to Be Murdered By_. After the album was officially released, he was practically on the edge of his seat in anticipation of MGK’s response… which, yeah, was a little pathetic. A _little_. He couldn’t help that this emotionally volatile kid was entertaining. He wanted him to release that second diss track he supposedly had ready to go, wanted to see if he could do better than _Rap Devil_. Disappointingly, the only thing his lyrical Easter eggs got him was a couple of regurgitated subtweets and a single Instagram Story of Kells flippantly brushing it off, probably drunk at the time. Nothing worth publicly acknowledging without revealing to everyone that he was watching MGK’s every little move like a hawk. Or like a _lecherous old creep wanting to get his rocks off_. If Kells had earnestly come at him with _that_ accusation, the truth in it may have actually wounded his ego. As it was, Kells had apparently had enough of people associating the two of them together. He had stopped adding fuel to the fire ages ago, and Marshall didn’t know if there was anything he could do about that, short of tracking him down in-person and doing something crazy, like seeing how well he could really hold up in a physical fight. In actuality, even the thought of verbally confronting him face-to-face was too much to bear; Marshall didn’t know how he’d react to having an opponent he’d studied so closely right in front of him.  
  
The kid’s past complaints about Marshall’s unwillingness to get on the phone with him sometimes hovered at the forefront of his mind. Maybe they _could_ have buried their shit if he’d have just opened up that line of communication, but it was too late to know now. At this rate, he probably never would. All he could do was keep MGK on his radar, and to this day, he still periodically takes the time to catch up on everything the kid had put out since his last deep dive. As part of his ongoing research, Marshall takes to checking Instagram more often than he ever has in the past, turning it into a sort of bedtime ritual. It’s probably the first time in his life he’s felt such a dependence on social media, and he's profoundly displeased by it.  
  
Tonight, as he now does pretty much every night, Marshall pulls his phone up after he’s made himself comfortable in bed. By rote, he opens Kells’ Instagram Stories and skips over a couple of basic posts promoting his new music. He refocuses when he comes to a video that was posted three hours ago, turning the volume up automatically. The Kells on his screen squints into the camera, the sun setting his scruffy white-blond hair aglow. He has a fat blunt in his hand and an embroidered snapback on and, Christ, he might as well have _douchebag_ tattooed on his face in cursive. Then again, something twinges in Marshall’s chest when the light catches the murky blue of his eyes and the wispy lashes that frame them, so who’s really the douchebag here?  
  
Realizing that he’d missed every word Kells had spoken in the recording for the few seconds that had elapsed, Marshall rewinds with a disgruntled sigh.  
  
“‘sup,” Kells says, leveling the camera with that aloof, vacant expression that Marshall has grown so accustomed to seeing on him. “I gotta vent for a minute,” he continues, rubbing at his eyelid with one glossy, pink-painted nail. “Y’know, I was laughing at all y’all sayin’ I got _kicked out of rap_ , and whatever the fuck… but it’s getting real old now.” He pauses to take a drag. “Like, a second of Googling would show you that that’s complete bullshit.” He frowns slightly, then shrugs and says, “There’s only so much I can take of the same exact comment over and over again, man. Shit’s _boring_.” He then plugs his latest single, flips off the camera, and that’s that. Story over.  
  
Marshall’s lip curls as he goes to watch it a second time, his frustration deepening. _Amateur move, kid_. Admitting that the internet trolls are getting under your skin, and doing it in an artificially indifferent way that betrays the depth of your insecurity? Really fucking stupid. Impulsively, Marshall taps into the “Send Message” field before Kells’ face disappears from his screen and starts typing whatever springs to mind. Of course, Kells won’t see any anonymous comment he leaves him, what with the undoubtedly chaotic state of his DMs, but Marshall suddenly finds himself needing to blow off steam.  
  
 _Maybe_ , he writes, _if you didn’t go around dressed like crackhead Barbie and putting out songs with the lyrical depth of a corporate jingle, people would take your ass more seriously. And maybe if you didn’t go crying to Instagram whenever you’re in your feelings then people would be less eager to shit all over you, especially after that big game you talk in interviews. Something to think about_.  
  
Marshall sends the message and enjoys a split second of satisfaction before a distinct sense of embarrassment replaces it, intermingled with regret. What is he, some rage-fueled teenager wanting to displace his own debilitating unhappiness? He drags a hand over his face, sleepiness having started to set in minutes ago, and goes to log out. And that’s when he notices something that makes his blood run cold. A picture of his own face is staring at him from the upper left hand corner of his feed, swiftly ushering in the horrifying realization that he’d _forgotten to switch accounts_ before viewing MGK’s story. He’d sent him that fucking DM from his verified account, which means that there is a very real chance he’ll _actually see it_ if he doesn’t act fast.  
  
Heart pounding, Marshall taps into his DMs and accesses his reply to MGK’s story, floundering for a moment as he tries to remember how to unsend it. He gets it after about fifteen seconds of fucking around, and breathes a little easier. Crisis narrowly averted. Serves him right for hiding behind anonymity like a pussy to fill the hole that his public feud with the kid had unexpectedly carved into him. Sighing heavily, he tosses his phone onto his nightstand and shuts his eyes, trying to force himself to come down off the abrupt high that his blunder had caused. It feels like a painfully long time before he’s able to relax enough to fall asleep. 

* * *

  
Colson wakes up to his phone buzzing incessantly, and has to fumble around in his sheets to find it, grasping past crumpled clothes and some of the other random shit that ends up in his bed without him remembering how. God knows why there’s a bottle of Clorox tucked under a throw pillow, or a spoon jabbing him in the ribs, but probably someone who was over at his crib last night could tell him a good story about it later. He finally finds his phone buried in a discarded Balenciaga sweater to the right of him, and silences the call automatically even while noting that it’s from one of his lawyers. Whatever it is, it can wait until he feels vaguely human again.  
  
Yawning widely, he blinks the grit out of his eyes and checks the time. 2:37 PM. _Okay, not terrible for a Saturday_. He stumbles out of bed, empty liquor bottles on his abused carpet clinking as he trips over them, and goes to the bathroom to take a piss, eyelids heavy. He washes his hands when he’s done, cataloguing the new cut along his thumb and index finger and the bruise forming around his left wrist, then reluctantly lifts his face to the mirror. Split bottom lip, crusted over with a bit of dried blood. Bags under his eyes particularly dark. Hair sticking up in every direction. He’s shirtless per usual, and wearing boxers that he suddenly realizes aren’t his - the fit isn’t quite right. Maybe he’d raided Baze’s laundry or something in a drunken stupor. He walks back out to his bed and snatches up a pair of cream-colored joggers that smell clean enough, stripping himself of the ill-fitting boxers before pulling them on. He then grabs his phone and returns to the bathroom to brush the stale funk out of his mouth, eyeballing his notifications while he vigorously scrubs at his teeth.  
  
As he does almost every day after he gets blackout drunk, he checks his texts and his social media accounts to see if he’d sent or posted anything his sober self would regret. It’s when he’s looking at his Instagram DMs that he sees something that makes him stop short, the hand holding his toothbrush stilling. Eminem’s name is at the top of his recent messages. _Oh, fuck no. What did you do?_ Prepared to see a likely unread (and very likely incoherent) message left by his intoxicated self, rehashing ancient history in some misguided attempt at demanding acknowledgement from a guy whose respect he’d once longed for; he is surprised to see nothing of the sort when he opens the thread. Instead, all he sees from last night, under Eminem’s profile picture, is:  
  


_This message is no longer available because it was unsent by the sender.  
  
_

“What the fuck,” he says aloud, toothpaste leaking onto his chin. Hastily, he spits into the sink and rinses his mouth out, then rushes out of his room and across the hall to Slim’s, holding his phone aloft and exclaiming, “Ay, you’re not gonna _believe_ this.” But Slim isn’t in his room, so Colson impatiently lopes down the stairs and finds him in the kitchen, hunched over the stove. “Yooo,” he says, clapping Slim on the back and ignoring the startled expletives he directs at him in response. “Peep this, tell me you’re seeing what I’m seeing.” He shoves his phone in Slim’s face until he takes it from him with an annoyed glare.  
  
“What,” he asks woodenly, after briefly glancing at the screen, “You wanted to show me some love letter you sent Em when you were in your early twenties?” 

“ _Huh_?” Colson snatches his phone back and looks at the thread again. “Shit, I don’t remember this.” Heat flares in his cheeks as he quickly skims the old message, timestamped December 2013. He’d been so preoccupied by the discovery that Em had _messaged him on Instagram_ of all things, that his sluggish brain hadn’t even registered it. Caught off-kilter by the sight of the worshipful garbage his younger self had spewed forth without an ounce of humiliation - maybe he’d been high when he wrote it, or maybe he just hadn’t expected Em to ever see it because that was how the world was _supposed_ to work - Colson grimaces and shakes his head. “Forget about that, did you see what’s _under_ it? He fucking unsent a DM, dude. Last fucking night.” 

The disinterest on Slim’s face falls away, his eyebrows shooting up. “Serious?” 

“Dude!” 

“Why would he…” 

“I dunno, but I need to clown on him for it. It’s too good.” 

“Clown on who?” Baze walks in with a bag of takeout that he sets on the island, sleeves of his hoodie rolled up to his elbows. 

“Eminem,” Colson says distractedly, trying to make out the lettering on Baze’s bag of food, his empty stomach suddenly seizing his attention. “What’s in the bag?” 

“Why’re we talking about Eminem in 2020,” Baze counters, pushing the bag out of Colson’s reach when he tries to grope around him for it.  
  
“‘cause he - bro, don’t be greedy, I’m just tryin’ to see what you got.” 

“These pancakes I’m making are for you,” Slim pipes up, pointing at the pan he has on the stove. “I promised Olivia I’d feed you today, since the last time she took a day off you had, uh, La Croix and Hot Cheetos for every meal.” 

“I literally love you,” Colson says, throwing his arms around Slim’s shoulders from behind and pressing a big noisy kiss to his temple.  
  
“You need a shower,” Slim says, unfazed, “Smell like ass.” 

“Where’s Rook at,” Colson asks, ignoring that comment, “He’d lose his mind over this shit.” 

“What, the pancakes?” Baze asks, confused. 

“No! The fact that _Eminem_ DM’ed me. And _unsent_ it.” 

“Whoa.” 

“ _Right_?” 

* * *

  
Marshall sleeps through his alarm, the clock on his nightstand reading 7:20 AM when he finally wakes up. He feels groggy and ill-tempered as he gets out of bed and into the shower; disruptions in his daily routine always result in a sort of simmering dread. The hot water helps, easing the tension in his muscles and quieting his thoughts a little. Shortly thereafter, he makes quick work of applying his skincare products and trimming his beard, pondering how he wants to spend his Saturday all the while. It’s when he’s eating the breakfast he’d prepared - egg whites and spinach on whole grain toast, cup of freshly brewed black coffee - that he remembers his near miss from the night before, after he watched Kells’ Instagram Story.  
  
Wincing, he immediately gets up to retrieve his phone from his bedroom, taking a fortifying sip of his coffee once he’s resettled at the dining room table and opening the app with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He checks his DMs out of a paranoid need to make absolutely sure he’d unsent it - which he evidently had - and then, taking great care to switch to his anonymous account, he opens MGK’s Stories. He’d added a few new ones since Marshall had gone to bed last night, but they are anticlimactic and characteristically obnoxious - jittery footage of an intimate house party that features Kells gratuitously breaking shit, slopping tequila down the front of his shirt, and exhaling weed smoke at the camera while a girl whose face is out of frame digs her crimson acrylics into his bare shoulder.  
  
Marshall sets his phone facedown on the table and rubs at his forehead. Even just these staccato glimpses into the kid’s life make him feel tired for him. He’s determined to put Machine Gun Kelly out of his mind for the rest of the day... which lasts for all of two minutes before he finishes his breakfast and his mind wanders to, _Kid’s probably eating Froot Loops in Mountain Dew or some shit, if he’s even awake. Fuck! Stop thinking about him!_  
  
Jesus. His thoughts, frozen for the briefest of moments by self-admonishment, start to seesaw into a frenzy; barely-remembered tumultuous nights from years before he got clean, lazy blue eyes peering dispassionately out from under a thatch of bleached-blond hair, the life-affirming sensation of his knuckles splitting open against brick and bone.  
  
 _Jesus_. It’s been a couple of weeks, but he suddenly, desperately needs to write. 

* * *

  
“Bruh, what should I write?” Colson’s been staring at his iPhone screen for an indeterminate length of time, chewing at his bottom lip and bouncing his leg restlessly under the dining table as he tries to craft the perfect blazing taunt to shoot into Eminem’s Instagram DM’s.  
  
 _surprised u even know how to delete a sent message, pops_.  
  
Nope, the old jokes are played out.  
  
 _watching my stories huh? knew u were in love with me._  
  
Whoa! Way too fucking flirty.  
  
 _i see you’re still not man enough to say shit to my face_.  
  
Okay, true, but somehow corny. Like the opening line of an anime villain’s monologue. 

“You’re still on this Em shit?” Slim’s giving him an incredulous look.  
  
“What,” Colson says, a little self-consciously, “It’s not like this happens every day!” 

“Tell him to suck your balls,” Slim says, “Easy.” He punctuates that with a reluctant sip of his kombucha.  
  
Colson scowls at him. “It’s Marshall fuckin’ Mathers, dude. I can’t just pull any old thing out of my ass.” He reads something on Slim’s face and hurriedly adds, “Don’t say it.” He does _not_ feel like talking about _Rap Devil_ , and the incensed haste with which he’d written it, at the moment. 

“A’ight, well… Godspeed.” Slim tips his kombucha at him and gets up to leave.

“You’re no help,” Colson mumbles at him, and Slim brushes his palm over his shoulder amiably as he walks past. Colson sighs and puts his face down on the table, lost in thought.  
  
He’s incredibly annoyed at himself for still caring so much about what Eminem thinks of him, after some of the brutal and downright defamatory claims the guy had pelted him with while they were trading disses in 2018, and when, to this day, his crazy-ass fans still pop up in his comments to tear him apart, irrespective of what he's promoting at a given moment in time. The knowledge that Em had possibly been looking him up on social media recently makes his chest tighten with a feeling that he can’t quite place. As dismissive as he is whenever he’s asked about the feud in interviews nowadays, prickly at the lingering association when he’d naively thought it would be quickly forgotten as soon as he stopped publicly acknowledging it, deep down he’s always been curious about Em’s side of things. Curious as to whether this larger-than-life enigma could possibly harbor as much contempt for him as his lyrics would suggest.  
  
Colson tries to avoid dredging up memories of the headspace he’d found himself in after _Killshot_ was rippling through the media, mutilated ego rotting him from the inside out as the fickle masses jeered and jabbed at him with a ferocity that he hadn’t anticipated, that he hadn’t experienced at anything approaching that level even when he'd first blown onto the scene with his punk inclinations and his explosive temper and his suicidal habit of picking fights with anyone who looked at him sideways. It sickens him to recall how far he fell into self-loathing during some of his darker moments that year, how close he came to… Well. Dwelling on it is a stupid idea.  
  
Sitting up to prop his chin on his fist, Colson’s eyes return to his phone screen, and for what is probably the several-hundredth time in his life, he thinks: _Fuck it_. 

* * *

  
After spending upwards of three focused hours hunched over his notebook with a ballpoint pen, translating the slippery coils of prose that whip at the crevices of his brain into unfiltered bars on the page, Marshall is reminded by a Post-It Note affixed to his desk that he has a routine video call with his chief financial advisors happening that evening. Grudgingly, he puts his notebook away and gets up to stretch his cramped arms, tempted to reschedule the call to avoid it infringing on the sanctity of his weekend. Nothing sounds less interesting to him right now than listening to Harold and Ahmed discuss rebalancing his investment portfolio in their humorless, droning voices.  
  
He glances at the clock. What with his frenzied writing session, and the unplanned workout and second shower that had preceded it, it’s already well past three in the afternoon. The realization sets his teeth on edge - the day’s halfway over and all he has to show for it is a novella’s worth of lyrics that need sanitizing, and a distractedness that has haunted him since the morning and that he was only able to shake in the act of writing. His hand goes to the cell phone in his pocket, fingers tracing the shape of it for a long moment before he takes it out and resignedly opens Instagram. Nothing added to MGK’s Stories since he last checked.  
  
Frowning slightly, Marshall prolongs the inevitable by switching from Instagram to his weather app and peeking at the forecast for the week. Then, with a growing sense of chagrin, he goes back into his DMs to triple-check his thread with Kells. His heart jumps when he sees that, incredibly, the kid had messaged him something just five minutes ago. Two words that, simple and inelegant as they are, make Marshall want to reach his arms through the phone and throttle the smugness right out of him.   
  


_lol. stalker_   
  


The _nerve_ of this arrogant young prick, to weaponize a single slip-up when ten years ago he was gushing over him like the hopeless fanboy that he was. Marshall sits back down forcefully and starts typing, letting his instincts lead him - potential PR consequences be damned. 

* * *

  
Colson is sitting cross-legged on the floor and plucking at the strings of his second favorite acoustic guitar, the notes ringing out discordantly. Baze and Rook are carrying out an inane argument that he’s only partially listening to, something about parking violations and one of their most-frequented clubs on the Sunset Strip. He’s trying to distract himself from checking Instagram over and over, gnawingly curious about how Em will respond, if he’ll bother responding at all.  
  
When he finally checks his DMs again in time to see a block of text pop onto the screen, he gets up without a word and scurries upstairs to his room with an eagerness that he can’t deny, abandoning his guitar against the leg of a couch. His heart is racing as he shuts his door firmly and sinks into his bed, hand stuttering over his mouth before he reads through Eminem’s message.   
  


_I don’t know what you’re talking about, but trust me when I say I have better things to do with my time than stalk some blowhard ex-rapper on fucking Instagram. For someone who dropped a line like “you just rap, you’re not gods”, you got one of the worst god complexes I ever seen. It amazes me that you somehow think I’ve ever given a fraction of a rat’s ass about a mediocre, cookie-cutter little fuckwit like you. One of these days, someone’s gonna teach you respect. Won’t be me though, because again, I couldn’t care less_.  
  


Colson blinks, grappling with conflicting emotions. There’s the kneejerk rush of anger elicited by the ubiquitous _ex-rapper_ comment and the disparaging tone that characterizes the entire message, but it pretty quickly ebbs into a sort of giddy awe at Eminem’s latent admission that he does, in fact, give a fraction of a rat’s ass about him. On top of quoting his own lyrics back to him, the speed and bluster with which he’d responded to his DM indicate that the guy _had_ been creeping on his Instagram account - especially noteworthy knowing he’s one of those dull people who uses social media exclusively for business. Colson had clearly touched a nerve. Laughing in amazement, Colson types out a response that’s as spontaneous as his first had been, and sends it without delay.   
  


_k_. 😘

* * *

  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Marshall spits, barely just keeping his temper from twisting out of his control as he sees MGK’s tauntingly monosyllabic second reply come through, so instantaneously that he’s still worked up from the rant he’d flung at him out of misguided instinct. _He has the upper hand here, and he knows it_. Marshall needs to calm himself down, needs to correct his error in judgment by appearing cool and unaffected. He can’t spend too much time on his response at this point, either. Taking a steadying breath, he writes:   
  


_Oh hold up, you’re a pop star now, so what the fuck does my opinion of you matter_.   
  


He sends it before he can overthink it to hell, loathing the knot forming in his chest. He paces around the room as he waits to see how Kells will respond, staring at the bright white of his screen and frowning impatiently. The reply, which comes through after around seventy seconds that feel like an eternity, reads:   
  


_you’re trying to piss me off but it aint gonna work old man. I’m thriving rn and there’s nothing ur salty ass can do abt it. love._ ✌️  
  


_Fuck this. Fuck this fuck this fuck this_. Marshall is overwhelmed by a sense of urgency so strong that it makes his palms clammy. He can’t allow his pride to be undermined by the kid who he’d turned into the rap game’s favorite punching bag two years ago. He can’t accept defeat in a text-based confrontation when words are famously his weapon of choice. He can’t think about why the flying fuck he cares so much how a vain poser like Machine Gun Kelly perceives him. All he can do is regain control; wrest the ball back into his court and take a jump shot.  
  
Desperately, dazedly, Marshall hits the video call icon in the upper left hand corner of their chat, intending to throw Kells off-balance with the wholly uncharacteristic move. If Kells declines the call, he’ll solidify himself as a pussy whose bark is bigger than his bite. If he accepts it, Marshall will at least have leveled the playing field - no impenetrable pauses during which to strategically select the right message to burrow its way under Marshall’s skin, no hiding physical reactions if they deviate even slightly from the utterly unbothered veneer he’s adopted. He waits, heart in his throat, wiping the damp palm of his free hand on his denim-clad thigh, until to his consternation, Kells answers the call. His face, in frustratingly perfect focus on the screen, is molded into a frown, shock of blond hair escaping the white hood pulled over his head and long fingers rubbing over his mouth.  
  
Marshall experiences a moment of derealization, their present circumstances strange enough that he can pretend he’s just watching Kells on his Stories again, or on a livestream, staring stonily at the comments to try to make out a fan’s question.  
  
He’s jolted out of it when Kells huffs out a short laugh and says, “Dude, what even is this.” 

“I - ” Marshall starts, then clears his throat, his voice coming out more gravelly than he’d like. He finds himself, horribly, at a complete loss for words. 

“This is the weirdest thing that’s happened to me all week,” Kells is saying lowly, almost like he’s talking to himself, “and I’m pretty sure I had a girl piss on me the other night. Wait, uh - ” His expression transforms into one of intense regret as soon as those words leave his mouth, and he covers half his face with his hand, visibly cringing. “I’m super faded. Forget I said that.” 

Marshall wouldn’t have thought it possible just a few seconds ago, but his disorientation is growing, the kid’s comments making warmth bloom in his cheeks. His manner, soft-edged and informal, carelessly honest like he might be with a friend, is so unexpected that it strips Marshall of his own mask, leaves him lost and grasping for the retreating tail of the indignation that’d had its claws in him tight before he initiated this call. 

“So like, you’re not gonna yell at me ‘n’ shit? Thought that’s where this was going,” Kells says after a beat, wary.  
  
Marshall manages to gather enough composure to ask, “Do you want me to yell?” 

Kells flicks his gaze to the ceiling thoughtfully, permitting Marshall to admire the symmetrical creases under his eyes, which - combined with the rough drag of his voice and his drooping eyelids - give him a sleepy appearance. “Well,” Kells says, “It’d remind me that I hate you, so. Yes, actually.” 

Marshall swallows. “You need to be reminded of that, huh.” 

“Sometimes. It’s easy to look back and think it was all just a big waste.” 

_Yeah_ , Marshall silently agrees, watching as Kells tugs his hood off and tousles his wild hair. Eyes suddenly sharp as he says, “But what happened to all that shit you were talking in my DMs? Don’t tell me you’re _shy_ when it really counts. Though it’d also explain why I have my camera on and you don’t.” 

The latter point surprises Marshall enough that he stutters a little, and kicks himself for it as he remembers that the kid had homed in on that very thing as a weakness during interviews. Kells doesn’t comment on it, however, just raises his eyebrows as Marshall truthfully says, “I didn’t know I had my camera turned off. This goddamn app is confusing.” 

“Okay, Pops,” Kells says, almost fondly, and it makes Marshall’s stomach twist. “It’s not fair, though, that you can see my face and I can’t see yours.” 

“Yeah, I…” Marshall briefly scans the settings, but he’s so laser-focused on Kells that he knows it’s a pointless endeavor. 

“Okay,” Kells says again, in a tone that Marshall is fairly sure implies, _you dumb old fuck_. No hint of fondness this time. “Mumble rapper, pop star,” Kells muses, bitterness warping his expression, “I couldn’t decide if you’d never listened to any of my music besides the obvious, or if you did and you were miscategorizing it on purpose to fuck with me.” 

“So that pop star comment _did_ get to you,” Marshall says, seizing his opening. 

“Of course it did,” Kells says, sighing gustily. “Hearing it from your cult of uncreative, dickriding fans is one thing. Hearing it from you, though?” He trails off, shaking his head. 

“What?” 

“You know,” Kells says, shrugging. 

“I don’t,” Marshall says, genuinely. “Tell me.” He has an _idea_ of what Kells means at most, and it’d be better to hear him put it to words. 

“You listen to it?” Kells asks, abruptly changing the subject. “My new album.” 

“Bold fuckin’ question, kid,” Marshall says, hesitating. 

“That’s me,” Kells says, and smiles for the first time since their video call had started - a close-lipped, wan thing that still manages to steal Marshall’s breath for a second. 

“Let’s meet up,” Marshall blurts out, gratified when Kells straightens in response, eyes widening.  
  
“Huh?” 

“Conversations like this make more sense in person,” Marshall says, confidence that he doesn’t entirely feel bolstering the claim. 

“But,” Kells says, blinking rapidly, “What - where?” 

“You can come see me here,” Marshall answers firmly. As taken as he is with Kells, he sure as shit isn’t flying out to godforsaken Los Angeles. 

“You mean… Detroit?” 

“Uh-huh. I’ll have my people send you the details.” 

Kells looks stunned, mouth hanging open and free hand gesticulating like it has a mind of its own. “Your people… I - I never agreed to - ”

“You’re not interested?” Marshall interjects smoothly, feigning calm though his heart rate is soaring. Better to drop the whole charade now if his forwardness has turned Kells off. 

“No,” Kells says, “I mean, I _am_ , it’s just… It’s just weird.”

“Don’t tell me you’re _shy_ when it really counts,” Marshall says, parroting the kid’s earlier quip.  
  
He’s rewarded for it with a real smile, eyes crinkling and teeth peeking through and a spark of laughter accompanying it as he says, “Weird. This is all weird as fuck. But, like, I’m down. I am.” 

Marshall’s smiling now too, helpless to stop it, and he’s thoroughly glad that Kells can’t see him. “You sure?” 

“Will I get to visit your freakishly huge mansion?” 

“A’ight, don’t get ahead of yourself.” 

Kells dissolves into a fit of giggles, yanking the collar of his hoodie up over his mouth to muffle the sound. “Sorry,” he rasps, shoulders shaking, “I just… can’t believe… this is actually a thing.” 

And Marshall, heart feeling uncomfortably swollen in his chest, thinks, _I can’t believe I was depriving myself of this for so long_. 

* * *

  
Colson, aboard a private jet headed for Detroit, is riddled with anxiety. It’s only been two days since his call with Eminem, and he hasn’t heard a word from him in that duration outside of a very curt exchange (over text - he has the man’s _personal phone number_ now) confirming his arrival time. Em’s reticence has him questioning, with a fervor that’s intensifying by the minute, why he’d ever agreed to this in the first place. As he was being driven to the airport in an UberX, texts from his group chat with the boys - currently named “boXXmunchers LLC” - had him fighting down a swell of nausea. They’d been the only people he’d told about his last-minute trip, heeding Em’s warning to _keep the label execs’ noses out of it_. 

From Slim: 

_You should of let us come with you G. Who knows what this petty mf has in mind_. 

From Rook: 

_maybe if u suck his dick he’ll agree to get on a track with u and then we’ll all be rolling in $$$$$_

From Dre: 

_what the fuck is wrong with you rookie_

From AJ: 

_I bet he just wants to apologize for all the bullshit. You’ll be good._

From Baze: 

_oh sure. cuz Eminem’s known for randomly reconciling with ppl he’s beefed with. prolly splitting a timeshare w you too_

From AJ again: 

_Y’all need to chilllll  
  
_

Colson had put his phone to sleep and stared unseeingly out the window for the remainder of the ride, hand clutched to his uneasy stomach. Now, on the jet, his nausea is returning, right leg bouncing ceaselessly and hand running through his hair as his mind concocts all sorts of outlandish scenarios around Em’s plans for his visit. Will he use the seemingly tame demeanor he’d projected over the phone to lull him into a false sense of security, only to beat him half to death? Will he trap him in some dark, isolated location and shank him with a broken beer bottle? Will he… will he take advantage of his undoubtedly superior strength and force Colson’s head down to his… 

“God fuckin’ damn it,” Colson mutters to himself, eyes prickling foolishly. He feels like he’s in high school all over again, gangly and awkward and a misfit in every sense of the word, bullies tailing him after an altercation that he’d been the one to turn physical - throwing the first punch and earning a relentless volley of them in return. Swiping at his eyes, Colson calls the flight attendant over and requests a bottle of vodka. As she dutifully turns to comply, his fingers trace over the outline of the little baggie of coke he has hidden in one of his many jacket pockets. He doesn’t get up to do a line of it in the cramped bathroom just yet, but the temptation is growing. 

* * *

  
Marshall is parked on the outskirts of the private airport that Kells is scheduled to arrive at in approximately ten minutes, his eyes checking the clock constantly. He’d taken one of his most inconspicuous cars - the 2017 Porsche Carrera with the tinted windows - and decided against bringing a bodyguard, not wanting to freak the kid out. Besides, it’s not like they’ll be walking around in public. He hates that he’s nervous, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror, wondering if he should alter his usual cap-and-hood combo. Maybe just the cap, or just the hood. Maybe neither.  
  
 _Lighten up_ , he tells himself, with a trace of self-disparagement, _It’s Machine Gun Kelly. His opinion isn’t worth anything to you_. He startles when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fumbles it out to look at the home screen. A text message from Kells.  
  


_I’m here. where u at  
  
_

It’s a short while later, when Marshall realizes with a jolt that he can see Kells approaching in the driver side mirror, overnight bag knocking against his hip and brim of his snapback pulled low over his eyes, that he has no choice but to accept that he’s been lying to himself. The kid’s opinion, at least in the present moment, is worth a whole hell of a lot to him.  
  
He continues to watch him as he steadily gets nearer; taking in his colorfully graffitied leather jacket with its too many zippers, his mile-long legs encased in tight black pants, the sunlight glinting off his neck and ears suggesting jewelry. _Subtlety_ , Marshall thinks wryly, _doesn’t seem to be a word in his lexicon_. Inhaling deeply, he opens the door and steps out of the car just as Kells is a couple of paces away, making eye contact with him as he freezes, tipping his head back to stare. 

“Shit, um,” Kells stammers, looking stupefied, “Fuck.”  
  
Marshall should laugh at him for that reaction, but he’s stuck in his own little daze, caught up in the shock of seeing him face-to-face for the first time. _Goddamn, this motherfucker is tall_. Knowing it and _experiencing_ it are two different things altogether. 

“Flight okay?” Marshall asks robotically, some self-preservational part of him aware that he can’t just stand there _looking_ at the kid like a bozo, much as he’d like to. 

“Uhh,” Kells says, and snatches his snapback off in a sudden, erratic motion, which just pushes Marshall further into his idiotic stupor because he can see his _whole face_ now. “Yeah. Yes,” Kells answers finally, hunching his shoulders without seeming to realize he’s doing it. 

“Good,” Marshall says, and then, with effort, inclines his head towards the car as if to say, _Let’s get this over with_. The silence inside the car, once they’ve started moving, is torturous. Marshall can’t stop himself from stealing glances at Kells out of his periphery, noting how tense he looks as he fixes his gaze at the scenery passing them by, gnawing at his bottom lip, hair brushed into his eyes.  
“You want the radio on?” Marshall asks, just as an excuse to banish the suffocating quiet, and meanly relishes the way the kid jumps at the abruptness of it. 

“N-nope,” he says, still not looking at Marshall. “Where’re we going?” 

“My underground World War 3 bunker,” Marshall replies, not missing a beat. “Nice and soundproof down there, nobody around for miles.” 

Kells snaps his eyes over to the driver’s seat, and in a mildly horrified tone of voice, asks, “For real?” 

Marshall scoffs, wishing he could cuff him upside the head for that. “You’re actually scared of me, huh?” 

“In your fuckin’ _dreams_ ,” Kells says, all obstinance all of a sudden. And then, deflating, “Maybe a little.” 

“Don’t be. I promise I won’t kill you.” 

“Mm,” Kells utters, turning back to the window, “Very noble of you, thanks.” He says this so dryly that it surprises a laugh out of Marshall, which in turn makes Kells look at him again, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

To save face, Marshall says, “You ain’t nearly as tough as you act like you are. Anybody ‘sides me ever tell you that?”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kells stiffen, walls going back up. “You don’t know shit about my life,” he says, quiet but grim. 

“No,” Marshall concedes calmly, “but I think I’d like to.” 

* * *

  
Their destination, as it turns out, is some fancy, dimly-lit restaurant that Colson has already forgotten the name of. When they walk in through a special entrance, they’re greeted by a waiter who formally addresses Em by his last name, and guides them to a table all the way at the back of the place. Clumsily trailing after Em, Colson taps him on the shoulder lightly and stage-whispers, “How come there’s no one else here?”  
  
The look Em casts at him verges on piteous. “I rented it out for the day.” 

“Oh,” Colson breathes, face burning, “That’s…” _Excessive_. But he supposes when you’re Eminem, no price is too high to pay to alleviate a little discomfort.  
  
After they’ve been seated and the waiter has left them alone, Colson’s attention immediately gravitates to the drink menu, torn between straight whiskey and the first tequila-based concoction he finds. On the jet, he’d limited himself to four shots of vodka, wanting to keep his wits about him in case Em tried anything funny. But he doesn’t think he can make it through this lunch sober - the drive to the restaurant had been painful enough already, questions he didn’t know how to ask tumbling through his brain at a dizzying rate. So he orders a stiff drink, and some offensively priced salad just to pick at with his fork when he needs to, and he peers cautiously at Em across the table. He’s ordered something that sounds French in origin, and is now thanking the waiter as he deftly scoops up their menus before retreating once again into the depths of the restaurant. Colson drops his eyes to the wine-red tablecloth so Em doesn’t catch him looking, examining his own hands curled over his placemat as if he’s fascinated by them, his assortment of scrapes and cuts greeting him from around his silver rings.  
  
“You know, people have been telling me we’re a lot alike for years,” Em says without preamble, a distinctly sour note to his voice. 

Colson clears his throat. “Which people?” 

“Sway, Yela, Diddy… the list goes on. People.” 

Eyes still fixed on his hands, Colson mumbles, “So on _Kamikaze_ …” 

“Exactly. I wanted everyone to shut up about it. Might’ve worked, too, if you didn’t respond.” 

Colson raises his head at this, indignation stirring to life in his chest. “Did you seriously expect me not to? You thought I’d just roll over like a bitch?” 

Em still has his hat on, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes, so it’s hard for Colson to tell if his outburst has affected him. Folding his hands together, Em says, in an annoyingly composed voice, “Maybe I did. But hey, you took a shot.”  
  
Colson sucks in a harsh breath, shaking his head. He knows he’ll completely lose his cool if he addresses that last condescending comment, so instead he says, “And like, okay, you and me being compared to each other - what a fuckin’ joke, right? Except the joke’s always been on me, ‘cause if I’m not just another white rapper _copying your style_ then I’m _switching genres after you killed my rap career_. So excuse me if I’m not sympathetic.” 

“Kid.” Slightest hint of dissatisfaction bleeding through the word. “Those comments only have power if you let ‘em. Thought you knew that.” 

“I _do_ ,” Colson snaps, thudding his upturned fist on the table for emphasis, “I _do_ fuckin’ know that. I’m playing pretend every goddamn day. Pretending I’m above the critics and old heads shitting on everything I touch, just ‘cause it’s me. Pretending I’m not strung out and depressed even when I say I’m happy. Pretending I don’t have some of the hateful shit you wrote about me burned into my brain forever. Like…” Colson pauses to drag a hand over his face, his head throbbing. “What are we doing here, really? What the fuck were you planning to say to me?” 

Their waiter chooses that moment to return with their drinks, setting down Colson’s whiskey and pouring them each a glass of water in the foreboding silence that follows. _Thank fuck_ , Colson thinks, picking up the tumbler and kicking it back like it’s nothing, deeply appreciating the familiar warmth spreading down his throat. To the waiter, he says, “Can you bring the bottle?” He indicates his partially drained glass with an unsteady index finger.  
  
The waiter, whose name may have been Frank, or Fred, shoots a hesitant look over at Em. He must pick up on some permissive gesture that Colson misses, because he says, “Certainly, sir.” Then, after updating them on the status of their entrees, he disappears as swiftly as an apparition.  
  
“I was hoping this wouldn’t go like this,” Em says, as Colson finishes off his glass of whiskey. “Though I can’t blame you. I get it.”  
  
Setting his empty glass down, Colson frowns in Em’s general direction, not at all sure how to interpret his apparent lenience. It’s antithetical to the Eminem brand. _What typa fucked up game is he playing?  
  
_ “You were hoping we’d, what, kiss and make up like it’s all in the past?” _That’s right, keep poking the bear, Colson. Get him to show his real face_. 

“Isn’t it, though? Two years later and you’re making big moves. Don’t see why it should bother you anymore. Shit, when we were on that call the other day, you almost had me convinced it didn’t.” 

Colson, who’d started interrupting when Em answered his question with a question, sullenly falls silent. It’s a bothersome thought, Eminem finally believing that Colson had leveraged himself high enough above the wreckage of the year that they clashed head-on to be able to laugh at reminders of it, only for Colson to break that illusion by opening his big mouth. _I didn’t want it to go like this, either_. There’s a key part of him, deep down in the molten core of his soul, that desperately craves the kind of validation that Em is so nonchalantly offering him right now, even if he’s doing it with ulterior motives. That part of him is fighting what he can already tell is a losing battle against the much bigger, much louder part of him that’s used to absorbing hurt and then spewing it back out three times over. 

“If I’m being completely honest…” Em begins, and when Colson refocuses on him, he recognizes uncertainty in the way his hand rests on the back of his neck.  
  
“What?” 

“I’m kinda… relieved… to see that I was wrong.” 

“You mean, about - ”

“About you being over it.” He seems well and truly uncomfortable now, his face angled away from Colson and the furrow of his brow visible from underneath his hat. 

Frank-or-Fred-or-whoever reappears before Colson can digest that, depositing a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and a plate of what looks like vegetable confetti in front of Colson, and a no-frills steak in front of Em. He asks if there’s anything else he can get for them, and Em tersely dismisses him with a thank-you. 

“I - ” Colson feels hot all over, and it’s impossible for him to tell whether he’s embarrassed, furious, or some hideous amalgam of the two. _I need another drink. I need to do a bump. I need to not be in this bizarro world where Eminem flies me out to chill on his turf and casually chat about something that mentally crushed me not too long ago_. 

“I needa take a piss,” he says, and pushes away from the table violently, chair legs creaking in protest. He storms off to find the bathroom without waiting for any kind of reaction, hand settling reassuringly over the baggie in the pocket of his jacket, which he hadn't taken off. If he’s gonna endure the rest of this shitshow, it’ll be with a little help from his friends Blow and Scotch. 

* * *

  
“There ya go, let it out,” Marshall says coaxingly, holding Kells’ hair out of his face as he vomits into a scraggly shrub in the vacant parking lot, body trembling. “Knew I should’ve made you eat more, the way you were goin’ at that bottle,” Marshall mutters, mainly to himself. “Bet you skipped breakfast too. Careless brat.” 

“F-fuck you,” Kells says, shuddering and dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. 

“Uh-uh, here,” Marshall says, grabbing a fistful of paper napkins out of the takeout bag that contains his leftover filet mignon. He extends the napkins to Kells, and then, when he doesn’t take them, clicks his tongue and catches him by the wrist to clean his hand off for him. “I don’t want a speck of your puke touching my seats,” Marshall says by way of explanation, though Kells isn’t paying him any attention regardless, pupils dilated and glossy sheen of sweat over his face and head turning skyward. Cautiously, Marshall pokes him in the arm. “Hey. Wipe your mouth properly, c’mon.”  
  
The kid’s unsettlingly glassy stare returns to him, and he says, seemingly at random, “Grow beards, get weird, disappear. That was the rel- reference. Fuckin’... idiots.” 

Not really listening, Marshall reaches up to dab at Kells’ mouth with a napkin, resolutely forcing his mind not to wander as he does so. It helps that he redirects his gaze from Kells’ lips to the neutral zone of his sternum after the briefest of moments. When he’s finished, he balls up the used napkins and looks around for a trash can, shoving them into his pocket with a wince when he doesn’t find one. Meanwhile, Kells is laughing deliriously about something or other, both hands clasped to his mouth. “Jesus, you’re high-maintenance,” Marshall says, sighing. “Get in the car.” 

When they’ve both gotten inside - Kells with a bout of not-so-gentle nudging - and Marshall is switching on the ignition, Kells says, “‘s hot as balls in here.” 

“So take that ridiculous jacket off,” Marshall says, not without an overtone of impatience. “It’s like 50 degrees out; I’m not fuckin’ with the AC.” 

“Naw, dude,” Kells says, twisting to press his forehead against the glass of the passenger side window. 

“It’s your own damn fault you’re sweating like that, anyway,” Marshall says, as they pull out of the parking lot. Though he hadn’t broached the topic at the restaurant, he’d known full well what those couple of trips to the bathroom that Kells had bluntly excused himself for had been about. Not quite warranting discussion in and of itself, but coupled with the amount of 80 proof liquor he’d guzzled on an empty stomach? Marshall has half a mind to _lecture_ the kid, even though he’s perfectly aware it’d be like talking to a brick wall.  
  
“Yeah,” Kells says, so blankly that Marshall can’t tell if it’s an admission of guilt or if he’s off in his own world again. “Highkey thought you were gonna kiss - Nope. _Kick_ my ass.” 

Marshall inwardly shoves away the horny gremlin that pops up at the back of his head to shout, _Freudian slip!_

“But you still showed up,” Marshall says, “Alone.” 

“Yeah,” Kells repeats, and there’s a palpably mournful note to it now. It sparks a sudden, gut-wrenching realization in Marshall.  
  
“You _wanted_ me to kick your ass.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Kells says quietly.  
  
 _And yet, it’s the truth_.

Marshall finds himself at a loss as to how to proceed. That had been a recurring theme during their lunch as well; the conversation cresting and crashing thunderously, only to recede into trepidatious stillness for minutes at a time, spindrift clinging to them both. It feels like they talked about a lot while talking about nothing at all. Marshall knows what his end goal is, though it had taken some effort to crystallize the intention even in his own head. _Friends_. It’s juvenile, he knows, but sincere just the same. Marshall _likes_ the kid, mercurial temperament and all. The heart-stopping honesty that he occasionally produces unprompted, the aura of loneliness that trails him like a shadow, and the destructive anger that takes hold of him without warning - it all helps Marshall feel closer to him. Throughout the nearly two hours that they’d sat at that table with a gulf between them that only shrank in increments, Marshall had no fucking clue what Kells’ goal was, in accepting this unlikely meeting, in following through despite their thorny history. He thinks he has a clearer idea now, his hands tightening around the wheel with the weight of it.  
  
He says, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not gonna feed into your self-loathing bullshit.” 

Kells says nothing. The remainder of the drive to the hotel is uneventful, Marshall meandering through a maze of his own thoughts and Kells so quiet that Marshall assumes he nodded off at some point.  
  
“Okay, up you go,” Marshall says, somewhat patronizingly, when they arrive. “You good to walk?” 

“‘course I am,” Kells says in a huff, scrabbling around for the door handle and ejecting himself from the car when he finds it, his bulky-looking bag in tow. Marshall watches as, swaying on his feet, he takes a few steps toward the hotel entrance… and promptly trips, catching himself before he can kiss the pavement.  
  
Sighing to himself, Marshall switches off the car engine and locks the doors before hurrying over to Kells’ slumped form.  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” he barks as he notices Marshall’s presence, his ears flaming red where they peek through his hair.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Marshall corrects him, taking hold of his arm and leading the way to the lobby.  
  
In the elevator up to the room Marshall had technically booked for him, Kells seems to forget himself, leaning against Marshall’s side listlessly as Muzak washes through the confined space. Their physical closeness is intoxicating - clean scent of Kells’ cologne mingling with the sharp tang of his sweat, his body heat encroaching on Marshall’s own, his every idle movement amplified. Lust glides insidiously to the forefront of Marshall’s awareness, whispering at him to _take take take_. 

He’s relieved when the elevator doors slide open and he can break their contact by stepping out, almost unbalancing Kells in the process. “Sorry,” he says, not meaning it in the slightest. “C’mon.” His heart slams into his throat when Kells grabs hold of his hand as they start down the corridor. He turns around to look at him.  
  
Kells drops his hand once Marshall’s eyes are on him, looking spooked. “Walkin’ too fast,” he explains, addressing the carpet.  
  
 _Ah_. 

“You gotta be careful,” Marshall says, intentionally vague, as he returns a bracing palm to his elbow. _Careful, or you’ll put bad ideas in my head_.  
  
They arrive at Kells’ room shortly, Kells retrieving his key card from his pocket with some difficulty and granting them access inside after several failed swipes. Marshall squats down to help Kells remove his boots, which are covered in buckles that Marshall doesn’t realize are mostly ornamental until he’s undone three or four of them on the left shoe and encountered the zipper sequestered off to the side. He guides him to the crisply made bed, tosses away the throw pillows for him, gently tugs his leather jacket off his shoulders. “Nothing a nap won’t fix,” he says, nerves jangled because there is a line, and he’d crossed it hours ago. Hell, _days_ ago, if he’s being honest with himself. Days before he’d first started poking a proverbial olive branch at Kells.  
  
“I don’t get it,” Kells says blearily. Lying down in bed; jacket off and wearing nothing but the thin, long-sleeved mesh top he’d had on underneath; he looks strikingly vulnerable. He looks _small_. Marshall takes a moment to appreciate the sight of colorful ink furtively greeting him through black semi-opaque fabric, of narrow bell sleeves falling over his curled fingers and his bitten-red mouth cracked open as his brain whirs audibly. 

“Don’t get what?” Marshall’s voice is a hair too rough. He needs to work on being less obvious. 

“You’re acting… nice. Why? What do you want from me?” 

Ever the cynic. _He’s right to be distrustful, in this case - with all the fuckin’ ogling you’ve been doing. Eyes on the goal, Marshall_. 

“Nothing, kid. I don’t want nothin’ from you. Get some rest. I’ll text you tonight.” 

He could say more. _I’m not exactly the monster you think I am_ , or, _You need to take better care of yourself_ , or even, _Don’t go anywhere_. But he leaves the room with nothing but a lie and a promise adrift in his wake, mind already racing ahead to what he might text Kells later, what he might plan for them tomorrow. 

* * *

  
When Colson wakes up, it takes him a long few seconds to remember where he is. It’s dark outside, his mouth is drier than sandpaper, and his hair is stuck to the sides of his face with sweat. A memory fragment of Eminem helping him onto the bed unlocks snippets of the heated conversation they’d had over lunch, and the other pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place from there. Scrutinizing his reflection in the bathroom mirror to make sure his nose was clean, bile rushing up his throat as Em led the way to his car, his hand impulsively clasping Em’s and the foggy sense of guilt that followed.  
  
Groaning, he sits up while clutching his aching head, locating his phone on the nightstand and peering at the home screen. Twenty minutes to midnight. He’d been asleep for _hours_. He has two unread messages from Em and about ten or fifteen others from miscellaneous numbers he cares far less about right now. Sent at around 8 PM:  
  


_Do me a favor and eat something when you’re up.  
  
_

And mere minutes after that:   
  


_Don’t do anything stupid tonight_.   
  


Colson scowls at the words resentfully. He’s not gonna let some pompous geezer order him around like it’s his right. Sure, Colson had fucked up by choosing to get shitfaced around Em and thus forcing himself into a position where he had to accept his help, but that doesn’t mean they’re magically _homies_ now. Not even close. 

He texts back:   
  


_your not my fucking dad. If I wanna be stupid there’s nothing u can do abt it_.  
  


Then, with a muttered expletive: 

_*you’re_   
  


Colson sets his phone down after he corrects his typo, not expecting a reply from Em until morning, since he’s assuming he’d crawled into bed hours ago. He then gets up and pulls off his uncomfortably slept-in shirt and pants, kicking them aside and going to get a change of clothes out of his bag. He’s gonna take a much-needed shower, and then he’s gonna figure out what stupid thing he can get up to in Midtown at this hour. The sound of Colson’s text chime going off gives him pause. He walks back over to the bed to check his phone just in case, almost entirely convinced that it'll be anyone but Em.   
  


_“Your” welcome for not leaving you passed out in the parking lot earlier_.   
  


Colson is so genuinely surprised to catch Em awake after 10 PM that he doesn’t bother to think up a retort.  


_uhh. why u even up rn  
  
_

The pregnant pause that follows entrenches Colson in speculations. He tries to shut that shit down, telling himself, _You really think he stayed up late just to hear back from you? Pull your head out of your ass_.

The reply, which arrives just as Colson is losing patience, reads:   
  


_I needed to make sure you weren’t dead_.   
  


Huh. Colson’s breath catches in his throat, his fingers flying over the keys.   
  


_long ass time to wait for a text from some blowhard ex rapper. r u trying to tell me something?_   
  


Em's reply:  
  


_Goodnight, you ungrateful little shit_.   
  


That’s more like it. Colson catches himself smiling and shakes it off irritably, setting his phone aside again and stepping into the bathroom. As soon as he freshens up, he _will_ Google nearby nightclubs and he _will_ empty his treacherous mind. 

* * *

  
The following morning, Marshall barges into Kells’ hotel room without bothering to knock, announcing his presence with a bright, “Rise and shine, princess.” 

From the bed, a lump smothered in sheets and pillows emits a frustrated groan. “What the _fuck_.” 

“Get up, we got shit to do,” Marshall says, yanking at Kells’ sheets. He gets them halfway down his bare torso before Kells grips at them tightly, tugging them back over himself to guard against the chilly air.  
  
“Dude,” Kells rasps, squinting up at Marshall like he still has sleep grit in his eyes, “How’d you even get in here? And the fuckin’... wake-up call, from that weirdly jacked guy downstairs?” 

Marshall shrugs. “Desperate times.” 

Kells rubs at his eyes with his knuckles, asks, “Do all these people, like, work for you?”

“Something like that.” Tariq, who works the front desk, is an old friend of Marshall’s. Marshall also happens to know the hotel’s general manager and CEO. 

“This is so fucked up,” Kells mutters, burying his face into a pillow, his hair as unruly as a mad scientist's. 

“Quit whining,” Marshall says, unsympathetic, “I’m not letting you piss away the entire morning just ‘cause you couldn’t go one night without getting trashed.” 

“Shoulda booked my own reservations,” Kells says gloomily. 

“Are you gonna get up, or do I have to drag you out of bed?” It might be wishful thinking on Marshall’s part, but he’s pretty sure he sees a shiver run through the kid’s body in response to the threat. It elicits a reaction in his own body that he sidesteps through sheer force of will. “That’s it,” he says decisively, and swipes away Kells’ sheets too quickly for him to react.  
  
“ _Yo_ ,” Kells complains, crossing his arms over his excessively tattooed chest with what looks like self-consciousness, “It’s way too early for this bullshit.” 

Marshall holds a hand out to him expectantly. “Up.” 

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to me like that,” Kells says, making a face. 

_I could say the same to you_ , Marshall thinks, letting his hand fall to his side, silently working on clamping the lid back on his rising temper. He refuses to risk destroying this tenuous acquaintanceship they’re cultivating by blowing up at the kid. Though, at the rate they’re going, Kells might destroy it without his help.  
  
Almost as if he’d heard Marshall’s inner monologue, Kells lets out an astonished squawk of a laugh. “Lookin’ at me like you wanna beat my ass, when you’re out here invading my privacy and making me lose sleep.” He props himself up on his elbows, the tilt of his head oddly inviting when he adds, “ _I_ should be beating _your_ ass.”  
  
Marshall’s eyes travel down his skinny torso, landing on the red triple X’s that peek over the sinfully low waistband of his sweatpants. “Oh yeah?” Marshall doesn’t realize he’d said that out loud until he hears Kells inhale sharply. He instantly flicks his eyes back up to Kells’ face, worrying about what he’d picked up on in his voice. The expression he’s wearing is either fear or disgust; Marshall can’t tell which. _Do something. Distract him. Deflect_. The instinct eats into him like acid. 

“Y’know,” Marshall says, fighting to keep his voice steady, “I’ve been real patient with you so far. You’re pushin’ your luck.” 

“Naw, fuck that,” Kells says irreverently, sitting all the way up now. “You’re the one who decided this was a good idea. You made this happen, and you still ain’t given me a straight answer on what it’s all for.” There’s a challenge blazing in his eyes when he continues, “I got a couple guesses, though.” 

“'s that so?” Marshall steps closer so that he’s looming over Kells, who’s sitting right at the edge of the bed. It prompts him to stand to his full height, jaw clenched as he glares down at Marshall.  
  
“Yeah,” Kells murmurs, and his glower morphs into a contemptuous smile as he says, “Here’s one.” Quick as a lightning bolt, he backs Marshall into the wall, slamming him into it before his brain can catch up to what’s happening. And then Kells’ mouth is on his, and he feels like he’s drowning, everything around him fading into static as the insistent press of Kells’ lips floods him with shockwaves of emotion.  
  
He yanks himself away before his inhibitions can completely abandon him, mouth feeling as hot as if Kells’ saliva had physically seared it. “You stupid _bitch_ ,” Marshall growls, an adrenalizing surge of fury compelling him to grab Kells roughly by the shoulders and flip them so that it’s Kells who’s pinned against the wall, his panting breaths warming the narrow space between their faces. Marshall’s fingers dig into Kells’ ink-covered shoulders so hard they’ll probably leave bruises, his heart pounding frantically against his ribcage. He strains reflexively upward to compensate for their difference in height. “You open this door…” Marshall starts slowly, magnetized to the hazardous edge of Kells’ taut jaw, to the flinty steel of his eyes. “You open this door, there’s no closin’ it.”  
  
His warning hangs in the air for an impossibly long moment before Kells sneers and says, “Knew you had a thing for me this whole time. Most of y’all who like to say I don’t belong in rap, it’s ‘cause you’re uncomfortable with the fact that you wanna fuck me.” 

In a calculatedly casual motion, Marshall nudges his leg against the bulge of Kells’ erection, which had been breathtakingly obvious through his flimsy sweatpants. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, shame creeping up his face in an angry flush. “I don’t gotta tell you about glass houses, Kells,” Marshall says, close to his ear so he can feel the resulting tremor wrack his body. 

“Did it feel good, earning my full attention after you’d thirsted after it for years? Did you jerk your little cock to the sound of your name in my mouth?” 

“Shut up,” Kells snarls, blinking too much, harsh breaths sputtering out of him.

“Need a strong male figure in your life, _Kelly_? Someone to work out your daddy issues with?” Venom coats Marshall’s every word. Kells flinches like he’s been slapped, heartbreak so plainly discernible on his face that it cracks something open in Marshall’s chest. And then just as suddenly, his smokescreen of anger is back, the few tears that escape him getting immediately dashed away by his left hand.  
  
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Kells tells him, his pretense of detachment not fooling Marshall, who can sense the howling gales that propel the words forward. He twists out of Marshall’s loosened grip and shoulders past him, saying, “Just leave me the fuck alone. If you try contacting me again, I’m blocking you.” 

_Wait_.  
  
Kells is busying himself with the bag at the foot of his bed, gathering up articles of clothing from the floor and shoving them into it. 

“Kid - ” _Please wait_.

“Get _out_.” 

“Hey, I’m…” _I’m sorry_. 

Carefully, Marshall reaches for Kells’ elbow, making him whirl around with his fists up. “Swear to god, you touch me, I’ll break your motherfuckin’ nose.” His face is wet with tears. His bottom lip is trembling. 

_Shit. Shit! You fucked up. You cut too deep_. 

Kells scrubs at his face, takes a shuddering breath, and continues fiddling with his bag; his back to Marshall once more. 

“I didn’t,” Marshall tries uncertainly, “I didn’t mean to…” 

“Yeah, you did,” Kells says flatly, “But either way, you can fuck off forever now. We’re done.” 

Marshall shuts his eyes for a brief moment, knocks his knuckles into his own fractured chest as he admits, “You’re right. I wanted to hurt you because… because this is important to me.” Kells isn’t looking at him. “ _You’re_ … well. And I’m an old pro at self-sabotage.” 

“We barely know each other,” Kells says reluctantly, his bewilderment evident in his voice. “There’s nothin’ here worth sabotaging.” 

“Look at me,” Marshall pleads, relieved when Kells complies, skepticism creasing his brow. 

“I’m telling you there _is_ ,” Marshall says, gripped by the desire to brush away the remnants of his tears, to kiss the frown off his forehead. He notices, for the first time, the freckle at the tip of Kells’ nose. He steps closer.  
  
“Don’t,” Kells says, scrambling backwards into the wall, fear flashing in his eyes. Marshall had done that. He inwardly berates himself for it, for taking something fragile and slashing a serrated blade through it, like he always does. For fighting fire with gasoline.  
  
“It’s okay,” Marshall says softly. He holds Kells’ gaze with his own, then lowers his eyes meaningfully to his waist. “Can I?” 

“I don’t - What - ”

Marshall bridges the remaining distance between them, sets his hands on Kells’ hips. He then sinks to his knees on the carpet. Kells gasps, and Marshall looks up at him, searching his face as his fingers hook in the sagging waistband of his sweatpants. The warmth of his skin underneath is electrifying. “Is this alright?” 

Kells swallows, his cheeks turning a shocking shade of red. “Um…” 

“Say the word, and I’ll fuck off. I’m serious.” 

Kells pulls on a handful of his own hair agitatedly, his eyes traversing the ceiling. “It’s, uh. It’s fine. You can…” He flaps a palm vaguely downward, and Marshall stifles a smile. _Cute_. 

Kells’ nervousness spreads to Marshall in a destabilizing rush the moment he finds himself staring at Kells’ naked dick, which is just as big as previously advertised by pants that clung in all the right places. “I don’t do this for just anyone,” Marshall says hoarsely, both because it’s the truth and to collect himself for a second before he permanently alters the course of their relationship. Kells says nothing until Marshall gets his mouth on him, at which point he releases a stream of filthy curses, his distractingly twitchy hands prompting Marshall to firmly direct his wrist to the crown of his own head. 

* * *

  
“So what’ve y’all been doing all week?” Slim’s voice carries through Colson’s iPhone speaker. Colson is currently luxuriating in Em’s silk bed sheets, drowsy from lack of sleep. He’d extended his stay in Detroit by a few nights, and Em has been making the most of them, to say the least.  
  
“Buttfucking, mostly,” Colson says, scratching his stomach. “He likes to switch positions, which I wouldn’t’ve guessed.” 

Slim groans. “Fine, be like that. I’ll get it out of you when you’re back home anyway.” 

“I gotta go,” Colson says, tensing as Em re-enters the room, holding a bottle of water. “Sorry. I’ll text you later.” 

“Man - ”

Colson hangs up on him mid-sentence, a double-edged shard of guilt stabbing into him as he takes the bottle from Em’s outstretched hand. 

“Who was that?” Em asks, nodding at Colson’s phone curiously.  
  
“Just Slim,” Colson says, then, realizing his oversight, “Uh. I mean, _my_ Slim.” 

“Yeah, that’s gonna get confusing,” Em says, smirking and sidling up to Colson on the bed. 

Colson takes a sip of water as a way to avoid eye contact, only to remember how thirsty he is and follow it with a long swig. “Lemme have some,” Em says, smacking Colson’s shoulder in protest when he takes a couple more greedy gulps. Colson passes him the bottle, wiping his mouth with his forearm. “Good boy,” Em says, the words rattling through Colson in a thunderclap of arousal. He bites his lip, bowing his head and praying Em doesn’t notice. But of course, nothing gets past the motherfucker. “You liked that?” He asks rhetorically, setting aside the water bottle and tilting Colson’s chin up, his eyes gleaming with a gleeful sort of interest. “Hm. _Really_ liked that,” he adds, trailing a hand down to Colson’s achingly hard dick.  
  
“Fuck,” Colson hisses, repeating it when Em manhandles him onto his back, his hands cupping the sides of Colson’s face as he kisses him hungrily.  
  
“You’re _mine_ ,” Em says in a rapt whisper when they break apart for air, his hands lightly squeezing at the base of Colson’s throat. And whereas normally; Colson might scoff at such a claim coming from fucking Eminem, might swat it out of the air with a spiteful remark; he finds himself eager to please, _possibly_ even eager for it to be true.  
  
“Yeah,” he says around strained breaths, “Yours. All yours.”  
  
Em just holds him for a second or two, wide-eyed, as if Colson’s concession had utterly astounded him. Then, he leans in to kiss him again, far gentler than ever before, his fingers stroking Colson’s hair back behind his ear. Colson smiles goofily at him when he pulls back, drunk on affection. Before he can give voice to it, Em says, “On your hands and knees,” shattering the moment so effectively that Colson laughs.  
  
“Okay. I live to serve you, _Zaddy_.” More laughter bubbles out of him, and he claps a hand over his mouth, vibrating with it.  
  
He doesn’t stop laughing until Em pushes into him, giving him a slap on the ass for his impertinence. “Brat,” he says as Colson finally quietens, except the word transmits the unmistakable glow of a term of endearment. 

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like it’s often glaringly obvious which character the fic author is biased towards. I hope you couldn’t instantly tell that I know jackshit about Eminem as a person outside of the highlights. I’m also sorely lacking in knowledge about:  
> •Rich people’s lifestyles  
> •Drug use  
> •Cars  
> •etc., etc., etc. 
> 
> Let me know if you liked this anyway! It was a JOURNEY. Per usual, I spent 500 years editing it and I'm still not totally satisfied.
> 
> P.S. Can we please appreciate this line from baby MGK’s feature in Dub-O’s “Mayhem (H.A.M.)”?   
> 
>
>> _ Got a used chainsaw that I call Slim Shady, and a sawed-off shotty named Kurt Cobain _
> 
>   
> The hero worship makes me EMO.


End file.
